The More Things Change
by LondonBelow
Summary: Roger can't handle the guilt.


This was written for speedrent. The challenge was to have a character change one thing about his or her past, just one, and show the results.

Disclaimer: I don't own RENT. At all. It's Jonathan Larson's. I'm just playing. 

**December 27th; 4 a.m. Eastern Standard Time**

_Roger grinned when he heard the door open and close. Heavy, booted footsteps told him who had come, as did the hushed conversation carried on in the front room. "…you?"_

_"Fine. And you?"_

_Roger pushed back the blankets. He shivered delicious at the cold. "Come on," he whispered loudly to John, a lime green teddy bear almost the size of the small boy. "Shh!" he admonished as he yanked John by the arm and carried him out into the corridor._

_As he approached the front room, Roger heard his name in his father's voice, then his mother's answer: "Asleep." Roger covered his mouth to stifle a giggle. His parents were in the kitchen now; he heard a cabinet squeak open and his father remark that he would look at it this weekend. A plate was set on the counter._

_By the time Roger sidled up to the doorway, his father was half-through fixing himself something to eat. Roger grinned. If he was quiet, he might not be noticed at all. He could stay here all night, until his parents had gone to be, and he would hear everything they said. "Andrew," his mother said to his father. Roger could not see her, but a moment after she said this his father turned and spotted him._

_"Roger!"_

_Roger twisted and giggled. "What are you doing out of bed?" his father asked, lifting him off the ground. Roger giggled. He loved this, playing, his father's big hands holding him. "Huh? What're you doing, Roger?" Andrew shook him gently, and Roger shrieked with laughter. "Grr, what am I gonna do with you, huh?"_

_"Andrew--!" Roger's mother hated seeing her child off the ground. What if he fell? What if he was hurt?_

_"Sorry, love." Andrew brought Roger close against him and held the tiny boy tightly. "Okay?"_

_"Thank you."_

_Andrew kissed his son. "Now. Let's get you to bed-- and this time, go to sleep!" Roger swallowed his giggles and promised._

When Roger awoke from these dreams, he awoke with tears on his face and a racing heart. His mind quickly traced back: _You killed April. You're a junkie. A whore._ And when he knew everything once more, Roger curled around his bent knees and trembled at the taut pain twisting itself in his stomach. It was guilt. _Guilt._ Roger's mind flashed, sharp shiny needles and foil and glassine and razors.

A new face flooded his mind: Mimi. Mimi, the girl downstairs, the girl who came up on Christmas Eve and had him out of the loft the following day, who had led him, nervous, into her bed that night…

Roger stumbled out of bed, dragging the sweat-soaked bedsheet a few feet as it refused to give up its hold on his legs. He hated nights like this, but they were becoming more and more common. Roger did his best to leave the past scattered on the wayside, but when he slept he could not drown the memories. They drowned him.

He held the telephone receiver listlessly to his ear. A dial tone sounded.

_Who?_ Who was Roger going to call through that cold plastic? Whose staticky voice could emptily remind him that this was far from his fault? Roger punched Maureen's number into the phone. She picked up after five rings, sounding angry and tired. He hung up.

Maureen laughed off those little moments, later, claiming she needed her sleep to maintain "this fabulous, ethereal beauty". Woken, she had no memory of kindness and compassion. Usually, that was when Roger liked her the most: when she was a surly, heinous bitch.

But right now, he needed a friend.

Roger glanced ahead at the window, the fire escape. He could climb down… surely he could climb down. Mimi would let him crash on her couch-- but Roger wanted more. He did not want to crash on Mimi's couch or to stay awake in the loft, feeling empty though he knew Mark and Collins were close by.

_"I know this is… stupid and trivial…"_

_"It's okay, Roger. You can always come to me with stuff like that. We're friends, remember?"_

_Oh. So that's what he had forgotten. Roger grinned a strange half-grin, feeling his cheeks balloon like a chipmunk's. "Yeah," he said._

It had been some time ago, but a promise was made in those words, one Roger hoped would be observed tonight.

His feet settled slowly one before the other on his way across the loft. He had no need of a light. In the darkness outside Collins' door, Roger paused, then knocked softly. The door opened an inch. He gave an encouraging push.

"Roger?"

That was not the voice he had expected. _Oh. Yeah._ Collins was asleep with his head buried under a pillow. Angel, her form seemingly misshapen for its boyish haircut, raised her sleepy head and asked, "Something wrong, sweetie? Want me to wake him up?"

Roger shook his head. "No," he said. "Sorry." He backed out, closing the door behind him.

Roger sat on the couch. Sleep was out of the question. He needed… he needed… What did he need? Roger needed… He leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. Maybe if it wasn't his fault. Maybe someone would care, maybe he could let someone care, if all of this was not of his making. Roger bit his lip and waited.

_"I'd spend all day wishing away my troubles, if it would do any good. Hell, I'll do just about anything that does any good. But wishing… hoping… praying… none of it helps."_

_"Yeah, you're right."_

Nevertheless, as he sat on the couch that night, Roger found himself wishing that any of this was not his fault. He did not wish to undo it-- could not fathom this life undone-- but wished somehow that some tiny piece of his personal hell had been of another's making, that he had some buoyancy to cling to. Roger would take anything, anything to end this guilt.

But it was just his AZT and his tricyclic, and Roger Davis stretched himself out on the bed to sleep.

**December 27th, 4:07 a.m. Eastern Standard Time**

_"Where have you been? You've worried your mother sick!"_

_Roger kept his head down, fists jammed deep in his pockets. He quickened his stride towards his bedroom, forcing himself to take even breaths._

_"Hey! I'm talking to you-- look at me when I'm talking to you!"_

_Roger stopped hurrying, largely because of the hand on his shoulder, spinning him, slamming him against the wall. "Where have you been? Do you have any idea what time it is?"_

_"O-one-thirty," Roger forced himself to say. He knew he would get it for that, but was going to get it anyway and he'd sooner be hung for the pound than for the shilling. _

_"What time is your curfew, Roger?"_

_"Nine-thirty."_

_"Where were you?"_

_Roger said nothing._

_"Where were you, you little punk? What were you doing? Don't you even care that your mother was worried? Concerned out of the goodness of her heart for a brat--"_

_"Looks more like drunk out of her mind," Roger retorted. He could hear her heavy snores, all but smell the alcohol on the air, and then a blow to the head made him dizzy._

_"Don't talk about your mother like that!" And it was a blow to the cheek, strong hands slamming him against the wall, before he was knocked to the ground. The ringing in Roger's ears was dissipated by the sound of a man fumbling with his belt buckle. Roger pushed himself to his knees, his feet. He made a break for his room, but a hand latched onto his collar, yanking his hair._

_Roger bit back a scream as stiff leather landed across his thighs. He grabbed the hand at his collar and dug his fingernails into it, earning a series of smarting smacks, but Roger would not relent. He felt the skin on the hand break as the belt continued to assault his jeans._

_"Fuck!"_

_The hand released him. Roger tore away, stumbling, regained his balance and tumbled into the bathroom. He locked the door behind him._

_Once the pounding at the door had subsided and Roger could breathe easier, he washed his face. He stood before the mirror and lowered his jeans. "Damn." His legs and bottom had been fairly soundly beaten. Roger grabbed a roll of toilet paper, tore off a strip and balled it up. He dabbed at the bleeding places, wincing. "Fucker."_

"Roger? Roger, wake up, honey. Oh, shit. Mark!"

"What is it?"

"I don't know, I just found him like this…"

"Roger." Roger heard his voice once more and felt the warmth of an arm resting across his shoulders. "Roger, come on. Open your eyes. Come on. Roger, it's me, it's Mark."

"What…?" Roger opened his eyes. Mark was sitting beside him on the couch, looking exceptionally concerned. A few feet away stood a person Roger could not immediately identify as Angel, because in sweats and without a wig, that person looked like a stranger. "What's going on?" Roger asked.

Mark stroked his hair. "You had a nightmare."

Roger shook his head. "That's impossible. I just sat down."

"Honey, you came into the room crying."

Once more Roger shook his head as Mark continued to pet him, gently touching his face. "Was it about your father?" Mark asked. _My father…_ Memories stirred in Roger's mind, a vague, fading feeling of warm hands holding him, keeping him safe, then a harsh voice, much fresher than that safety, and a belt… "Did you dream about him again?" The telephone rang. When Maureen's voice poured into the loft through the answering machine, Mark said, "I'll be right back." Then, "Hey, Maureen."

"Hey. Are you guys okay? Because I just got a phone call and it sounded like somebody was crying."

"Yeah, yeah, we're fine. Roger's…" Mark glanced over his shoulder at the figure on the couch, then turned away and lowered his voice. "He's having a tough night. No, no, it's okay. Yes. I will. 'Bye, Maureen."

Roger squinted and blinked, trying to align his memories. He traced his arms, the scars he knew and did not know at all. When Mark returned softly to sit beside him, Roger asked, "Do… do I do this a lot?" A part of him remembered it, but then, a part of him questioned. Had this been a dream? Or was he dreaming now?

Mark nodded. "Do you want me to get Tom?" Angel asked.

Mark shook his head. "We're okay," he said. "Thanks, Angel."

"Well… good night."

"'Night."

Angel left the two alone. "Come on," Mark said. He looped an arm around Roger's shoulders. Roger allowed himself to be led into Mark's room and settled beneath the covers of Mark's bed. Were they a couple? Roger could not recall… Mimi, Mimi, he was with Mimi. He tried to protested, but Mark hushed him. "Just let me take care of you, Roger. It's okay. He's gone."

Roger closed his eyes. He vaguely recalled a memory of warmth… warm hands… Mark's hands? No, hands much larger than Mark's. But more clearly he remembered the smell of whiskey and of his father's aftershave, and the feel as the nail tore his arm that time… yes, yes, there was so much blood, and he had the scar now…

Mark cuddled Roger as one might a child. "You're safe now," he promised. "You're all right. Try to get some sleep."

Roger closed his eyes _heroin withdrawal April_ and promptly opened them again. How had he done that? How, for one second, had he stopped thinking of her, of Mark and Collins and what he did to hurt them so terribly? How could he be so selfish as to let his guilt ease for the smallest of seconds? "I'm sorry, Mark," he whispered.

"Shh--"

"I'm sorry, no, you mustn't do this. I don't deserve--"

"Shh, Roger." Mark tightened his grip, pressing his heart against Roger's back. "Shh, it's okay. You're okay. You're a good man, Roger."

_Yeah, right._

A familiar twist settled in Roger's gut. _You killed April. You're a junkie. A whore._ He breathed a sigh and fell asleep.

The End!

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